Friday, June 1, 2012

She
closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk
through the door. How could an estate sale list get any sadder, she
thought? Making her way up the dark stairs to the bleak rooftop, she
reviewed the list in her mind.

“Baby
shoes, new. Never worn. $2”

“Various
romantic movies, DVD. 50 cents each.”

“Four
slot toaster, two slots never used. $3”

Pushing
the heavy iron door open, she felt the cold rush of mist and winter
move against her nakedness. She pushed ahead anyhow. Pigeons
fluttered away, annoyed by the intrusion. Stopping, the door still
heavy against her bare hand she watched them fly higher into the
grayness, escaping one bleakness for another.

A
pair of reliable leather shoes kept no secrets as she moved nosily
toward her favorite perch on the edge. As she sat down on an old
“Maui No Ka Oi” beach towel, the heavy iron door announced it was
no longer interested, booming shut.

One
last cigarette appeared magically as she rolled the box in her hands.
Fishing the clear disposable lighter from her worn paper bag she
fought with the flint to get one last flame out of the remaining
fumes. It had been her only successful method of controlling the
addiction. Never stocking up. Yet, only buying when she had run out
had not delayed anything. When the building Super had noticed that
of her once, he had shaken his head slowly, like old men will, saying
she only tortured herself. He had no idea.

Sitting
on the edge, her feet dangling over the thirty vertical window
gardens below, all abandoned, she inhaled deeply. It had really been
the only lover she had ever been able to count on, these kisses of
nicotine moving through her soul. Drawing a second deep breath she
watched the traffic below and continued going over her list.

“Queen
sheets, 400 thread, still in package. $4”

“Scented
bath salts, various. $3”

“Love
chair, never proven. Free.”

She
twirled the now empty lighter in her hand, wondering how such a good
friend had worked against her all along. Crushing the empty
cigarette box before throwing it on the roof with the lighter she
wondered for a moment if it all been a conspiracy. “Of course,”
she laughed loudly, disturbing only the stubborn pigeons who had yet
to fly away.

The
Super, a man that reminded her of a father she might have had, would
at first think she had taken a weekend with a lover, perhaps out to
the mountains. But, then he would come to collect the rent and find
her still gone. Perhaps after another few days he would let himself
in, saying out loud that he was there to inspect the pipes.

Reaching
into paper bag again, she pulled out a handful of bird feed, the kind
that was always on sale. Pigeons weren't especially picky eaters.
There was enough room on either side of her to spread it out evenly,
on her left and then on her right. The varied colors had always
fascinated her, even as a young girl. No one, though, had ever been
able to explain why some of the seeds were one color or another.

A
moment later, the pigeons crowded her perch, feasting, as she flew.

The
Super, she envisioned would find her very organized instructions in
the book, and her key sitting stoically on top. He would open it and
flip to the first page.